A Problem
by narooks
Summary: "For several days now, General Iroh has been troubled by a problem of singular difficulty."


For several days now, General Iroh has been troubled by a problem of singular difficulty. He's an officer of considerable repute, and so challenges such as these are typically welcomed rather than discouraged. In this particular case, however, it seems that the master strategist is at a loss. His traditional veteran's methods are proving woefully inadequate. Espionage and infiltration are of no use, and an ambush would prove disastrous for his ends. He organizes his thoughts in a log detailing his progress, but even this fails to calm him (_day one: doing reconnaissance is an exercise in futility; the firebender boy seems unwilling to part with information on the Subject, even when bribed with sweets. Dammit. It was my understanding that all adolescents enjoyed baked goods_).

Iroh cannot even seek advice on the topic. With all previous issues he'd willingly sought out the opinion of his crew members; in the past he'd even wired Fire Lord Zuko with queries. But what would his grandfather say now, if he knew the nature of Iroh's problem was more personal than tactical, veering into (dare he say it) romantic territory?

His problem, more vague and abstract than any military man could be comfortable with, his _problem_: quiet steps round the corner, hands pinning back blackest hair, slim-hipped and slow-smiling, a budding queen, a green-eyed question like a deep-sea secret.

Her name is Asami Sato, she is pretty, sharp, and much, much too young for him. He's ashamed of his concern for her, his infernal attentiveness ("_are your rooms to your liking, Miss Sato?"_), his morbid curiosity (_"what are you reading, Miss Sato? Oh,_ _Love Amongst the Dragons?"_) the nighttime specter of her form and face that dogs him in dream. He cannot fool himself by pretending his motivations are charitable—his interest in the young lady goes beyond pure altruism. He reminds himself that by virtue of her age she is a child, really, only a child. But the way she moves, with all the illusive grace of a river nymph, and the way she looks around a room, fingertips pressed to her temples, like a monarch at a council of war—these are not childlike qualities. And there are other parts of her that are hardly childlike, as well (_Iroh, agni, what are you thinking, have you gone mad_).

He tells himself this momentary infatuation is merely an unfortunate consequence of months of maritime isolation, years of a soldier's retreat from womanly warmth. In the evenings he washes his uniform and reminds himself of what it represents—responsibility, in the truest sense of that word. He can be possessed by a list of duties, a royal line, a nation—but he could never allow this adolescent flight of fancy to possess him.

Iroh has met his fair share of courtesans, clothed in scarlet and mustard yellow, smelling like spice and sun, all of them bewitchingly lovely, educated in a thousand scholarly tomes, all of them of absolutely no interest to him. So what is it about this girl that keeps him awake on moonless nights, forcing him to roam about the ship like a lovelorn, starstruck youth?

Her beauty may be a factor, though he finds this hard to believe; a general feels death too keenly to put too much stock in mortal accidents like a lissome body and red lips. He knows how quickly a bomb could warp her countenance, blind those green eyes. It cannot be her oratorical abilities, either. They have not had many opportunities to converse at length, so he can only imagine what discourse with her might be like. In any case all the droll wordplay in the world would not impress him. He's a man trained in metal and mortar, and he likens all witty talk to the bureaucratic poppycock he so despises.

It bothers him. His affection for her feels too solid to be based on whim. But what is it that draws him to her, if it is not loveliness nor cleverness?

He has his answer one night on the ship, at dinner. She is very quiet and still throughout, her behavior contrasting with the crowing and careening of his crew, and the rapid-fire exchanges of the adolescent trio beside her. He watches her excuse herself from the table in one fluid movement, slipping out the door. Not thinking of his own position, he dumps his napkin on his plate and follows her out, half a dozen strides behind. His stealth training has fortunately not been for naught; he may not be in top form while trailing his strange beloved, but she is entirely unconscious of his worried glances and harried steps.

When she reaches the open deck she walks to the railing, a flurry of floral skirts, hair invisible against pitch-dark sky (_Asami, what—_); she stretches her arms over her head, body tensing, and _screams_.

A yell, furious, violent in the manner of warmongers and conquerors, threaded through with the rawness of long-time suffering, leaving him rooted to the spot, eyes wide. By now he's familiar with her background (sailors are awful gossips, and crew members keep no secrets from their captain) and so he vaguely knows of her father's cruelty and her unfortunate romance (_silly firebender boy_), but he never conceived of the magnitude of her loss until this moment.

He would go to her, but he steadies himself and stays his hand. Part of him (a rather large part) wishes he could burst upon her and be her debonair, swashbuckling savior. But he knows there's no need for him to act the part of knight errant. She may be alone, angry, she may be sobbing in the dark, but he understands that this girl could stand up with the best of them, she is all lion-heart, bravery, all fire and boldness. She is not a dolled-up princess, as he had mistakenly supposed, but rather an amazon, a pure-bred warrior without sword, but never lacking in spirit nor strength.

_This is what you are,_ he marvels. _And that's not you screaming for help_—he watches as she, his problem, his best and hopefully unsolvable problem, tilts her head up at the sky, hands curled up tight, eyes alight—_that's your battle cry._


End file.
